


A Night's Sanctuary

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Feuilly are supposed to be keeping a low profile while they are away from Paris, allowing suspicions about their political alignments and plans to fade.  None of their friends would be surprised to find out that instead they are running with illegal weapons, looking for a place to hide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night's Sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PilferingApples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilferingApples/gifts).



> This was written for PilferingApples, for the Les Mis Trick or Treat exchange.

_A Night's Sanctuary_

" _Quickly._ "

The word is a low whisper, meant to carry to Feuilly's ears and no further.

He didn't really need the admonition—he knew well enough that when it was time to run it was time to _run—_ but his feet seem to move a bit faster anyway.

Is that the clatter of booted feet behind them?

Is that the sound of someone else's gasps in the fog behind them—someone other than he and Enjolras, fleeing with what bits of weaponry they were able to grab?

Perhaps they should have left the weapons. They could claim that they had no dealings with the rebels if they left the weapons, after all—but they have to work so hard for every weapon acquired and disseminated, the idea of abandoning anything before it's necessary sticks painfully in his throat, refusing to be said.

Besides, they can always abandon the weapons if they're certain that the chase is nearing a close. Certainly Enjolras would suggest that, if it became necessary. And without the incriminating evidence Feuilly is sure that Enjolras can come up with some reasonable explanation for them being out after midnight. Feuilly could probably come up with a reasonable explanation himself, but he's found that people immediately identify him as Parisian—or at the very least a northerner—as soon as he opens his mouth, so best to let Enjolras handle the talking if possible.

Buildings loom out of and recede back into the fog in a strange pattern that Feuilly, used to the crowded streets of Paris, can't quite predict. He focuses on breathing and staying tight to Enjolras' heels, not wanting to lose the man who knows the town so well—who is, he hopes, leading them to a place where they can catch their breath, because if he has to keep running for much longer they won't need to follow the sound of his footsteps or predict where he's going. Their pursuers will be able to find him by the rasping of his breath, already painful in his throat, and hope not to stumble over him prone in the street.

Another building rears out of the fog, directly in their path, and Feuilly finds himself skidding to a halt and blinking at the rough gray rock in confusion, trying to determine where Enjolras went. There's certainly no way he plowed through the stone, which is cool and slightly clammy when Feuilly reaches out to touch it gingerly, but Feuilly didn't see him turn to the left or right and oh no has he managed to—

"The _guns._ " The whisper comes from above him, and Feuilly starts back, head snapping up. If he squints, he can indeed make out a hand descending from the fog, an arm that is anchored around a sneering gargoyle creature several feet above him.

Pity that Enjolras' hair doesn't _actually_ glow, as Grantaire once accused and the others still tease him about. Anything would help to pierce the damp, miserable fog that snakes through the night, hiding and revealing bits of architecture with maddening irregularity.

Even as he considers what he's seeing Feuilly responds to the commanding tone, standing on tip-toe and stretching the guns up as high as he can. They are snagged from his hands one by one, disappearing into the gargoyle's dark nook.

The sound of footsteps, maddeningly distorted by the fog but far too close for his liking, causes Feuilly to press closer to the damp rock. How on earth had Enjolras managed...

"There are hand and foot holds." The whisper is strained, the volume so low Feuilly can barely make it out. "It's like climbing a tree but with more upper body strength."

Feuilly decides after a moment's consideration that telling Enjolras he has never had the opportunity to climb a tree can wait until he's managed to scale the mocking wall in front of him. Pressing his body tight against the rock, wishing for the briefest moment that he were a snake or an insect—a bird would make things too easy, really—he feels above his head for anything that could be a handhold.

"Come _on_!" The tension in Enjolras' voice rises as more booted footfalls sound, even closer. "Get high enough and I'll pull you up!"

It takes four attempts and a flailing, frightening lunge that leaves him hanging suspended for moments that feel like minutes, but Feuilly eventually manages to get high enough for Enjolras to grab his hand and haul him up into the safety of the gargoyle's nest.

Their pursuers finally run past the church—it _must_ be a church, Feuilly has decided, given the size and the ornamentation evident in the architecture—less than a minute after he has been bundled back into a little artificial cave with the guns. Feuilly tries to quiet his breathing, though his chest still burns and the moisture in the fog, though enough to remind him that he is thirsty, does nothing to make his mouth and throat feel better.

Three more groups of people pass below their nook, and Feuilly can hear snatches of their conversation, all displaying the southern accent—as Enjolras' voice has picked up more and more of his native accent again during their brief visit.

Eventually, though, there is silence outside, the deep, dark silence of tired people sleeping in exhaustion, and Enjolras slumps back into the tiny cramped space behind the gargoyle with Feuilly.

"You know..." Feuilly smiles tentatively at his friend, scooting over so his left side is pressed more heavily against the guns and Enjolras can have a bit more room. "I don't think this is quite what Bahorel meant when he said we needed to leave Paris for a few days."

A flash of white teeth shows him that Enjolras appreciates the jest. "Given the trouble he ended up in last time he went home, he has no right to complain. What did he expect me to do, sit useless while others decide whether or not I'm a threat? I _am_ a threat to those in power; I shall continue to be; and if I must leave Paris for a brief period, I will not leave my usefulness behind. It's not as though the revolution will be a Parisian one only, after all. We must have allies throughout the country if we wish to get rid of Charles and replace him with a true republic."

Feuilly makes no comment, considering the man squeezed in next to him in the small space. It is hard to see much more than his profile in the darkness and the fog, but he can _feel_ Enjolras, a point of heat and warmth and vibrating energy. It really had been foolish to think that Enjolras would take the time needed to free him from suspicion—and possibly prison—to rest, especially with the growing anger and anxiety spreading throughout the country. "You heard the rumor that they might disband the Parisian National Guard?"

"I heard it. If they do, they'll be turning the people even more against them. A people who cannot communicate through peaceful means with their government has no choice but to take up arms. At this rate, we'll have our revolution within the year." Enjolras leans out toward the entrance, his body pressed tight against the gargoyle's sinuous body. It is some kind of phoenix, Feuilly thinks on closer inspection, though with horns and a lack of feathering that make it difficult to tell. Or perhaps he isn't seeing the details that would make it obvious due to the gloom, the moon's light an intermittent glistening in the night fog. "For now, though, I would like to get us home in one piece. We'll wait here for a bit, be sure we're clear, and then make for my mother's lands."

Feuilly nods, trying to find a comfortable position to settle in and finding it difficult. Ah, well. He's been in worse places, and for longer periods of time than this is likely to be. "How did you know about this place?"

"My father showed it to me when I was younger." Enjolras squirms a bit, his boots rustling in the damp debris of scattered leaves that fills their alcove. "It seemed bigger at the time."

Feuilly laughs quietly, shifting himself so that a gun stock doesn't press quite so painfully against his ribs. "I imagine so. Though the way this is designed... it's almost as though it's _meant_ to hide people. Or objects. Or both."

"It was." Enjolras curls up, limbs folding tight, taking up the smallest amount of room possible. "My parents paid for renovations to the church when they were young. Friends and accomplices have found it useful over the years, and when it seemed I had inherited some of their... proclivities... my father made sure that I knew about it, too."

Feuilly tries to imagine the scene—an aristocrat teaching his young son to scale buildings in the name of justice—but the image is too far from any experiences of his for him to get much. "I suppose it's sanctuary of a kind, though not usually what people mean by the church's protection."

"It's far more certain than the sanctuary that depends on the whims of the priest in power." Enjolras hesitates. "Though, to be fair, the one who was here when I was young was a friend of my father's. I doubt it was solely my parent's wish that led to the creation of these little nooks. But his was a less... forceful type of justice than I can condone. If someone stumbled up to him when the church was open, he would do what he could; once the doors were closed, he slept soundly through any knocking, no matter how desperate or despondent."

"An apt analogy for how many act." There is more bitterness than Feuilly would like in the words, and he clears his throat. "Not to cast aspersions on humanity in general, but it is something I have seen. If it is easy and convenient, most can spare a spot of kindness; if it requires effort or empathy, it can be harder to move the comfortable."

Enjolras allows a few seconds to pass in silence. "My mother once said that people have three motivations: the desire to be good, the desire to be safe, and the desire to be comfortable. It is unfortunate that many are able to grasp the latter two strongly enough to make due without the former."

"Not many." Feuilly murmurs the protest, hugging his hands to his chest and chafing them against his clothes. Now that they aren't running, the spring night is fast becoming too cold. "I have known too many people who were good when they didn't have to be to say many. But enough to make the work of revolution necessary."

"And there will come a time when it is easier to be good." Enjolras' voice is low again, but there is a thrumming note of energy and passion lying underneath that seems to fill their alcove and sends a shiver of anticipation up Feuilly's spine. "There will come a time when men will see that they do not have to sacrifice their lives or their livelihoods to be kind to others. When men will see that there is enough food and shelter to cover all; that caring for another's child and keeping them from starvation will not take food from their own children. There will come a time when _all_ men can be good and safe and comfortable. It will happen."

"It will." Feuilly says the words with the same quiet conviction that he learned to say _Amen_ with as an orphaned child. This is the catechism he has dedicated his adult life to—the betterment of all humanity, the expansion of rights to every citizen. Even if the cost is blood and pain and fear today—and he knows, from the tales his friend's tell him of other countries and the ones he has heard of France's own shrouded history, that it will cost dearly—it will be worth the final price.

Silence descends between them, and though at first it is reverent and still they both soon break it with uncomfortable shuffling.

Blowing on his hands to warm them, Feuilly glances at the fog-shrouded phoenix. "How many of these little nooks are there?"

"Three outside St. Martin's, behind each of the flying gargoyles; two inside; and another dozen such places scattered throughout the city. Or at least... there were, when last I checked."

"Saint Martin's?"

"After Martin of Tours, the patron saint of soldiers. An interesting fellow—a soldier who fought to be discharged from the military, a bishop who was tricked into taking the position by the populace, whose travel-worn appearance made the other bishops in the area leery of accepting him. Though there's also Saint Martin the Pope who was tortured by the emperor for refusing to follow orders." A wry note of humor enters Enjolras' voice. "I sometimes suspect that my great-grandfather was also about the family business when he helped set up the church."

Feuilly hugs his knees to his chest, trying to imagine what it would be like to come from a long line of rebels and revolutionaries. To have a father and mother who discussed politics with you, rather than picking it up piece-meal from the friends that one made.

Not that he is ashamed of his own knowledge, of the winding road that has led him to where he is. "Do you think they'll ever canonize the South American Martin?"

"I... don't think I'm familiar with the man."

"He was a half-Spaniard bastard—in the familial definition of the word—who worked at a monastery there. One of my old roommates had family in Panama who talked about the miracles that were attributed to him." Feuilly hugs his knees a bit tighter. "Rome wasn't too keen on accepting him, though."

"I... don't know." Enjolras' tone is thoughtful. "Unless the church is involving itself in more earthly pursuits such as politics, I tend not to pay much attention. We could always ask when we attend service on Sunday. Assuming you wish to go with my mother and I."

"Yes, of course." Feuilly gives a self-conscious laugh. "Assuming you would normally go, and that I won't be a nuisance."

"You are never a nuisance, my friend." Enjolras sidles his way out from behind the gargoyle again, looks around—at what, given the fog, Feuilly has no idea—and then comes back and settles down. "I think we should wait another few minutes, and if we hear nothing we'll head out. Given the later-than-expected time, we'll probably end up sleeping in the barn so as not to disturb the household overly much, but it's generally warm in the hayloft and there's a gorgeous view of the sunrise. Would that be acceptable?"

"Perfectly."

Feuilly smiles as he and Enjolras once again shuffle about the small place, eventually finding a position where they're sitting back to back, sharing at least a bit of body heat against the chill of the night.

A gun to hand to one side, a dear friend warm and vibrant beside him, and the promise of a warm dawn despite the cold dark fog currently curling around him...

Yes, right now, he finds this to be a perfectly acceptable position.


End file.
